


Apophenia

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [18]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (But it's complicated) - Freeform, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Depression, Dick Grayson is a Ray of Sunshine, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff with a Sad Ending, Gen, Good Bro Dick Grayson, Hugs, POV Child, Slice of Life, Soft Bruce Wayne, Tim's personality consists of him really liking the color red and being overall adorable that's it, Tiny Tim - Freeform, Unreliable Narrator, Y'all are gonna hate how this ends I'm telling you now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25015060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: (/æpoʊˈfiːniə/) nounThe psychological tendency to see connections between unrelated things
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1353415
Comments: 70
Kudos: 222





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to publish this all together (Honestly, it probably reads better as one piece...), but I'm still working on the final scene, so I figured I'd just punt this out into the football field of AO3 and see how it goes.

It’s an important day.

Tim doesn’t know why that is, exactly, but he knows it’s the truth. There’s no other reason why a nurse would wake him up this early, ushering him into an exam room, and closing the door behind her.

Tim’s been waiting here ever since, at this point feeling especially tired as he rubs the stiffness out of his thighs. All of his muscles are throbbing, like the marrow is being squeezed out of his bones, but that’s nothing new. Mostly, he just wants to go back to sleep. At the very least leave this room.

It’s simple and unadorned outside of standard medical equipment: Trinkets and metals shine on the walls; bubbles bounce around the sleep screen of the desktop computer; and the window blinds are drawn too tight to see anything past them. The windows are always closed like that—always, and it’s too quiet here.

A hear-your-heartbeat, measure-your-inhales kind of silence.

Tim listens to the faint sounds coming through the doorway and starts when he hears the clip of high heels stop just outside.

A head of mousy hair pokes into the room. Tim recognizes who it is instantly.

“Good morning,” the woman greets from the doorway, her lab coat bright in the artificial lighting. “Sorry to wake you so early today. Did you sleep well at least?”

“Yes, Dr. Drake,” Tim answers, feeling a bit better now that he has company. He likes Dr. Drake. She’s nice and smells like flowers.

“That’s good,” Dr. Drake smiles, finally coming into the room. The door closes behind her, and she beelines for the sink to put on some gloves. “I just wanted to give you a quick checkup today. Make sure you’re doing all right.”

Tim’s a bit confused at that. (He doesn’t think his last checkup was that long ago.) When Dr. Drake unhooks the otoscope from the wall, though, he lets her peer into his ears with only harmless curiosity. She checks his mouth, nose, and eyes and asks him about his week. There’s kindness in the thought—but also professionalism. Tim’s learned not to take it personally, because Dr. Drake isn’t Tim’s family. It’s been made clear to him that no one here is, and there’s something that’s…odd…about that.

Tim thinks he should have a family somewhere. He knows children have parents. The people on TV tell him so. They say that children have families and friends who love them, and after commercials, the TV people go on to talk about brightly-colored letters and numbers. Tim is good with those.

After a short while, Dr. Drake leans back and settles the stethoscope around her neck, seemingly satisfied. “It sounds like you’re breathing well,” she comments, swiveling her chair over to a desktop computer. She opens a spreadsheet and starts typing. “Is there anything else you want to talk about, Tim, or is everything feeling okay?”

Tim chews at his lower lip. “My arms and legs hurt,” he says honestly. They’ve ached for as long as he can remember. He wishes it would stop.

Dr. Drake’s mouth curls in sympathy at the tone. “I know. It’s a side effect of the medicine, and there’s just not much we can do about that.” She continues to look guilty for a brief moment before her face brightens. “But I do have some good news.”

Tim perks up.

“Wait here just one minute,” Dr. Drake tells him, hands placating as she steps out of the room.

Tim isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, but whatever it is, it's taking its time. As a distraction, he pulls his legs up onto the examination table and puts the soles of his feet together, humming to himself. He’s struggling with the _Looney Tunes'_ theme when Dr. Drake reemerges, looking more nervous than Tim’s ever seen her. He thinks that might have to do with the man that follows behind her. His business suit makes him look sharp and intimidating.

Tim’s instantly nervous too.

"He's about six now," Dr. Drake says, hands clasped in front of herself as she addresses the man. "We haven't run into any medical problems yet, which is a good sign. Bits of aches from the senescence treatment, but that's to be expected, and considering...."

Dr. Drake continues talking, but the man clearly isn't paying the words much attention; his eyes are locked firmly on Tim as he remains just behind the door's threshold. The frame is filled with his height and shoulders. It makes him look trapped.

Dr. Drake finally notices her audience isn't paying her any attention, instead watching Tim, and she somehow seems even more worried. "Um, if there's something wrong, Mr. Wayne, you know we can always—"

"No!" the man blurts out. Tim jumps at the noise, and everyone in the room is on edge until the man scrambles to append, "No, it's…not that. It’s just that he’s…”

He breathes.

“He's perfect, Janet."

Dr. Drake closes her eyes, seemingly in relief, while Tim struggles to suss out who the person in question is. The stranger—Mr. Wayne—is still looking him over from the entrance, and it's making Tim’s skin heat with discomfort.

"I'm glad you think so," Dr. Drake has said in the meantime. "Tim’s been wanting to meet you for a long time now. Isn't that right, Tim?"

Tim's attention shoots to her, obviously confused if not betrayed. He's never asked to meet this man in his life.

"Tim?" Mr. Wayne questions anyway, clearly interested as he takes a few steps into the room. "That's your name?"

Tim nods, the sanitary paper crinkling as he pulls his knees to his chest. He likes his name. He's the only kid here who was told to choose his own. No last name. Just middle and first.

He feels self-conscious about that now.

"Timothy Jackson,” Dr. Drake supplies helpfully from the corner.

Tim only nods another “yes” of agreement into his knees.

"Timothy..." Mr. Wayne echoes. When Tim looks up, he realizes the man’s conflicted over the "Jackson." He clearly tries to work past the first syllable, but he ultimately settles for just repeating Tim's first name instead. "My name is Bruce Wayne,” he offers. “It's nice to finally meet you."

Tim closes his fingers more tightly around his shins, filing away the name. It's clear that Mr. Wayne will be staying for a while when Dr. Drake lends him her desk chair.

“Why don’t you tell Mr. Wayne a bit about yourself?” Dr. Drake prompts again, waving her hands in a “Go ahead” motion while Mr. Wayne settles himself directly in front of Tim. Tim just looks at her like she’s lost her mind. He doesn’t know this person, and he doesn’t particularly want to. What he wants is to do is go back to the _other_ room with the _other_ kids and play racecars with his friend Conner.

But here he is instead, with this stranger.

“He loves firetrucks,” Dr. Drake answers for him when the silence waxes, and she counts out Tim’s likes on her fingers. “Firetrucks and Legos and—"

“Why are you here?” Tim asks the man.

Dr. Drake looks horrified.

“I’m so sorry,” the good doctor is already apologizing. “He’s not usually like this, I swear.”

But Mr. Wayne doesn’t take his eyes off Tim.

He looks almost hurt by the question, actually, expression morphed into something sympathetic and honest, and the man tentatively rests his hands on the outsides of Tim’s upper arms. It’s a bit of a shock, because Tim can’t remember the last time an adult interacted with him without surgical gloves on, all cold and plasticky and crinkling against his skin like he’s made of paper.

But Mr. Wayne’s hands aren’t like that. They’re rough and calloused around the pads, but mainly, they’re just really, really warm.

And surprisingly kind.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Wayne soothes, checking over Tim’s face as if asking whether the contact is all right. “I forget you don’t know who I am yet. I should probably explain.”

Tim hopes so. He feels uncomfortable here, sanitary paper clinging to the soles of his feet. He wants to know why this man came to see him.

“He doesn’t know his last name yet. Does he, Janet?”

Both Tim and Mr. Wayne look to the doctor as she shakes her head. “No. For privacy’s sake—and considering your station—we decided it was best to keep it confidential.”

Mr. Wayne nods in understanding before turning back. Tim’s head follows, and he watches the man’s face as he seems to think something over. His irises are bands of blue so clear that they almost get lost in the whites of his eyes. Tim counts the shades.

“Tim,’” the man finally speaks, “your last name is Wayne.”

Tim’s forehead sows together cynically.

“No, that’s your name,” he corrects, because he’s been paying attention. He’s smart. Dr. Drake tells him so.

“Yes,” Mr. Wayne considers. “You’re right: That is my name... But it’s also yours.”

Now Tim is very confused.

He scrutinizes the man, thinking that he must be playing some kind of prank on him, but there’s nothing but innocent intent there.

“Tim,” Mr. Wayne clarifies with a small smile. “Tim, you’re my son.”

The skepticism falls off Tim’s face.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know what to think. He feels a bit like someone popped open his chest—like one of those robots in cartoons, that they emptied his emotions into the trash, and closed him back up, leaving him with a bunch of nothing on the inside.

Eventually, Tim’s gaze drifts Dr. Drake’s way. She nods enthusiastically.

Mr. Wayne’s telling the truth.

And slowly but surely, all of those little robot pieces, the gears and canisters and microchips clink back together inside, echo against his ribs and chirp through his heart. The change rings up into his head, and…

“Dad?” Tim asks, voice watery.

He’s always wanted to say that word.

“Dad,” Tim repeats, utterly in love with the way the title clicks on the back of his teeth, with how easy it becomes to unfurl his hands in Mr. Wayne’s direction and how the man’s expression absolutely _collapses_ in response.

“Oh, son,” Mr. Wayne breathes, voice thin. From then on, Tim can’t do anything but hear the thrum of the man’s lungs, face pressed into his shoulder as his dad picks him up. Tim’s old enough to feel embarrassed for crying, but he can’t stop himself.

_“He’s perfect.”_

The first thought his dad had about him.

_“He’s perfect.”_

Tim’s so happy he could die.

“It's okay. I’m here,” Dad says into his hair, the words resonating in every hollow piece of him, and as much as it’s probably meant to be comforting (and it is), the words only serve to make Tim sob harder.

He has a family. He has a name. He _belongs_.

“Don’t go,” he hiccups, because Dad had to have left him at some point. Tim wants to be this close to him always. Dad shushes him softly, turning, and Tim can hear the crinkle of the sanitary paper when the man sits down. He’s patient with how long it takes for Tim to calm down; he just cups the back of his head and lets Tim dissolve in the warmth he offers.

Tim’s still terrified he’ll leave, though. When his nose clears enough, he does his best to memorize the artificial cologne smell, the laundered scent of his jacket, and the softness of the stitchwork under his fingers. He wants to capture them like fireflies, close the lid and watch the lights go all night long.

After an eternity that’s still too short, Dr. Drake’s voice floats in. “Mr. Wayne…”

Dad’s head turns, and Tim shifts to chase his pulse.

_Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go._

“I’m sorry, but I think we should let Tim go back now. He still has a few more months here…”

Tim’s lungs start like butterflies. He clings tighter, eyes closing in distress, but Dad pulls him back with gentle ease. It’s only when the man starts to thumb the tears from his eyes that Tim looks up. Dad appears equally distressed.

“I…” Dad starts, gazes still wandering Tim’s face. ( _Don’t go, don’t go, don’t—_ ) “Janet, I can’t.” Dad pulls him back in with some kind of desperation, nestling Tim’s head under his own.

“But Mr. Wayne—”

“I know I asked for sixteen,” Dad’s baritone rumbles, like the yawn of peaceful thunder, “but I can’t leave him. I’ll still pay in full, but…just let me have this.” His arms close more fully, Tim small enough that they could nearly encompass him twice over. It’s a silent oath that he’s not letting go.

Dr. Drake must be able to tell as much, as she sighs. “I’ll have to talk it over with my husband. But do be aware there will be lot of paperwork to sort through on your end, Mr. Wayne, and you’ll have to be briefed on all the medical precautions that our office would’ve covered.”

“Thank you,” Dad says, and then, Dr. Drake’s excused herself to fetch some forms and the door clicks closed.

Tim’s finally alone with the only family he’s ever known. He thinks this must be what love feels like, so soft and encompassing, and the way Dad looks at him is stamped on his mind like footprints in warm sand.

After a few moments of just being close to one another, Tim allows Dad to pull away enough that they can look each other in the eyes. “So, Tim,” Dad says quietly, like they’re two people in on a secret, while he sweeps Tim’s bangs back into place, “firetrucks and Legos, was it?”

“Yeah,” Tim whispers back, “red Legos is the best.”

Dad smiles. “The red ones are the best,” he agrees, and when Tim yawns, Dad allows him to cuddle up to him again. It’s still early in the morning, and Tim’s still so tired, encouraged by the fact Dad is here now like a good dream, pushing out heat and holding him in a way Tim’s never been before. He drinks it all in like a sleeping draught…

Papers shuffle.

Tim blinks his eyes open again when the shoulder beside his head rolls, shifting something. Head lolling back, Tim looks up to see Dad and the lights of the ceiling above him. Their positioning is different, and Tim realizes they’re sitting at the desk now, Dad focusing on a spread of forms and tapping a pen. The man’s face softens when he notices Tim’s awake. “Hey, chum. Just filling out some forms.”

Tim nods sleepily and rubs at his eyes. The tightness in his arms pull then, like the draw of a bow over bass strings, and he winces. It’s always worse after sleeping. He thinks he’ll mention that to Dad one day, but right now, he’s just too tired.

A hinge squeaks, and then there’s the shudder of a door closing. “You’ll need to read these as well, Mr. Wayne,” Dr. Drake says, back now, and a packet’s set down. “I had one of the secretaries highlight the most important pieces, but pay close attention to calcium and vitamin D intake and note that his immune system will take a while to build up. Also…”

Dad’s lungs keep rising and falling against Tim’s ear as the man scratches out his signature over and over, signing where Dr. Drake indicates he should. It sets a rhythmic cadence. Eventually, Dad’s hold changes, sitting Tim upright, and the daze fades.

“Tim? Can you hold this for a minute?” Dad settles the pen between Tim’s fingers and points to a line on one of the pages. “I need you to write your name here. It just means you’re okay with coming home with me.”

“We’re going home?” Tim asks, sleep zapped from him in exchange for excitement. He’s going home with Dad. Immediately, fifty questions pop into his head. What does our home look like? Is there a white fence like there is on TV? Do I have siblings? Do I have a mom?

Tim swallows them down but can’t help the anticipation that snaps onto him like a magnet.

“Is that okay?” Dad asks, worried, and Tim nods so fast that he makes himself dizzy.

Dad just laughs. “All right then, just write your name here.”

Tim hastily drags the paper closer to himself and balances the pen in his tiny hand. “Can I write my last name?” he asks when he’s working on the “son” in “Jackson”. Dad’s quick to say he can, spelling out the letters for him.

“…Y…N…E, and done.”

Tim takes in the finished product and grins. The letters are at mismatched heights and slants, different from the flowy cursive below it beside “legal guardian”. But his and Dad’s names share the same ending, and that’s all that matters.

Dr. Drake’s manicured hands start pulling the papers together. “I’ll just get these photocopied for you, and then you’ll be all set. If you’ll follow me...”

Standing, Dad sets Tim down on his feet. Tim’s distraught about that until Dad ruffles his hair, smiling with his eyes, and Dr. Drake leads them outside. On instinct, Tim moves to turn left down the hallway.

“Tim, this way,” Dad beckons.

Tim stares. He’s not allowed to go that way, but Dad takes his hand (“It’s okay.”) and soon they’re in a part of the building that Tim’s never been in before. It’s relatively small, lots of comfy-looking chairs lining the wall beside magazine-stacked tables. Dad and Tim pause by a secretarial desk while Dr. Drake runs off to make the copies.

Tim hopes she comes back soon. An older woman is staring at him from over one of the periodicals, gaze digging into him like he doesn’t belong, and maybe he doesn’t: Everyone here is dressed in their own clothes, fancy pocket watches, tight-curled hair, and rich colors, while Tim is here in scrubs with the cable carpet flush against the soles of his feet.

Embarrassed, he hides his face in the side of Dad’s thigh, and the man picks him back up.

“We’re gonna miss you, Tim,” Dr. Drake says when she returns, handing Dad a folder.

Suddenly, the idea hits Tim that he forgot something. His head swivels to Dad. “Can I come back to visit Conner?”

Dad raises an eyebrow, Tim belatedly realizing he doesn’t know who that is. (Tim wants to introduce them. Conner would love his dad.) Instead, Dr. Drake and Dad look at each other, sharing a silent conversation.

“I’ll give you our P.O. Box so they can write each other,” Dr. Drake offers, and even though it’s not exactly what Tim wanted, he really just wants to be able to tell Conner what’s happened.

The information is quickly exchanged. Then, Dr. Drake waves a small goodbye, one of the few people who’ve known Tim all his life, and he and Dad step out into yet another hallway and another room. This room jolts, though, thrumming like an engine. Tim panics a bit before Dad pets the back of his head.

“It’s all right. It’s just an elevator.”

“Elevator…?”

“When you hit one of those buttons—see? Those ones—it can take you up or down.”

“Oh…” Tim wonders if it isn’t some kind of metal animal. Either way, twenty seconds later, the elevator opens its mouth. “Thank you, Elevator,” Tim says politely, and for some reason, Dad chuckles at that.

Tim’s so busy soaking in the sound of his laughter (He’s proud of himself; Dad thinks he’s funny.) that it takes him a moment to notice the new space they’re in. That is, until a short _be-wop_ sounds, lights flashing in his peripherals. Tim’s head turns, and his mouth falls clean open.

It’s the biggest place he’s ever been in, a low, dark metal ceiling with concrete floors.

“Dad,” Tim whispers. “Dad, look at all the _cars_.”

There are dozens of them—hundreds of them—all lined up in nice, pre-determined spaces, and they’re positively _gigantic_. Way bigger than any of the toy models he’s played with. He and Dad are making their way over to an especially nice-looking one that’s toward the edge of the space. It’s the same car that beeped earlier.

“Parking garage,” Dad supplies with a smile, juggling a lanyard until he finds the right key.

Tim repeats the words to himself, still trying to absorb all of the things about this experience. It smells damp here, like someone’s just taken a bath in it, and a draft of cold, water-saturated air lances his skin, straight through the fabric of his clothes.

Tim ignores his first instinct of curling closer to warmth in exchange for finding the source.

Rain.

It’s raining.

That has to be what it is, little white streaks falling and cracking on the ground like eggshells on the visible parts of the world outside of the parking garage. Tim can see a wall of buildings on the other side, shiny windows that reflect the sky.

_The sky._

Even in a reflection, Tim loves it.

A door pops open (“There we go.”), and Tim’s eyes are ripped from the scene in exchange for the inside of a car. _I’m in a car, I’m in a car!_ It’s the coolest thing ever, he thinks. Black leather seats that shine in the glow of a ceiling light. Buttons and dials next to the steering wheel. Vaguely, Tim wonders if firetrucks are this big on the inside.

Dad works a seatbelt around him, saying something about needing to buy a booster seat, and then Dad’s in the front seat, the keys clinking in the ignition, and _woah_.

It’s like being inside the elevator again, that distant whir that Tim can feel in the spaces of his skull. He jerks against the seat faintly when they move, and from then on, Tim’s eyes are glued to the window. It’s fogged from the condensation. He’s shocked to find it comes off on his fingers when he rubs at it.

“What do you think?” Dad asks from the driver’s seat a moment later.

Tim doesn’t even know where to start. He always thought the world was so much smaller than this. It’s overwhelming to find there’s more, that he’s only one tiny person in a world of big things, but he’s not as scared of it as he could be.

That much is clear when Dad reaches back, focus still on the road, and rests a hand on Tim’s knee.

Tim knows, somehow, from that touch alone that Dad would never let anything bad happen to him.

“I love you, Dad.”

The car rolls to a stop at a light then, Dad looking back. The window-wipers flash in front of him against the rain, and he looks like he’s struggling to say something. “I…” he starts, expression blank before turning bittersweet. The rain echoes around them.

“…I love you too.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dad is nice.

Tim really does love him, for all it’s worth, but even weeks later, he still doesn’t understand why Dad lives in such a large house all by himself. Tim doesn’t have a mom or a brother or a sister—which is fine. Dad’s enough.

It’s just that…Tim thinks Dad must’ve been lonely here, before Tim came into his life. Honestly, the six-year-old spent the first few days just getting lost here, popping up in random places like a rabbit from a hat. There are rooms upon rooms upon rooms. He and Dad only really use a few: the kitchen, the parlor, the washrooms, and two bedrooms. They’re right next to each other—his and Dad’s rooms, and it’s great in the mornings.

Tim always scrambles into the man’s space, tackling the side of the bed in a pitiful attempt to pull himself up. It always ends in Dad sweeping an arm under him and pulling him close to doze the rest of the morning away.

Dad sleeps in most days. Till noon. Sometimes till one. He always seems tired, dark marks under his eyes, but Tim loves him all the same, just snuggles up close and tells him bad Laffy Taffy jokes until one of them earns a snort and Dad finally rolls out of bed.

Dad has lots of scars, as well. Tim’s seen all the ones lining his back, silvery cuts that shine like sweat, and Tim thinks Dad’s had lots of surgeries. Tim’s had them too, pokes and prods. Dad must still be recovering from them based on how he shuffles in the morning.

“I’m just old,” Dad excuses, pouring Tim a glass of milk and a shot of coffee for himself.

Tim thinks it’s something else.

But as much as Dad continues to hurt, all of Tim’s aches have faded. It’s a miracle. A few weeks after being home, the persistent throb of his bones have settled back into murmurs, then whispers, then silence. Now, Tim has energy for days.

“Don’t get into trouble,” Dad warns him in the afternoons, right before Tim bolts out the French patio doors and down to the rocky ocean shore out on the far end of the property, breathing in the salt and brine and watching the sea broil. Although Dad answers all of his questions with endless patience, Tim still feels like he knows nothing about the world. He wants to know it all. That’s how Tim spends most days, wandering and learning until it’s time for dinner. Dad spends a good minute rubbing hand sanitizer into Tim’s hands, into every crack and crevice. It smells like 7Up and burns like it too.

Still, it doesn’t take long for Tim to get sick. It’s an on-and-off thing with him, lots of head colds and sore throats. Whatever he has now is leagues past that, though. Tim’s been too out of it to really garner how bad it is, but he can see the insomnia in Dad’s face when cognition coalesces enough to make him out. Tim’s marked the changes, seen the deepening lines in his skin, the lackluster sheen of his hair.

It’s been days of this. Dizziness, trouble breathing, always being cold. Tim thinks he’s coming out of it, though. The nausea’s faded back into a faint fever, and he’s rested so much that the boredom might pose more of a threat than whatever illness he has.

That’s led them both here, outside on the veranda at three in the morning. The lights from inside the kitchen spill out on the lawn in sharp boxes, stretching out like a Picasso painting over summer grass, and Tim sinks back into his patio chair.

“Tired?” Dad asks, eyes focused on the crossword in front of himself—the print’s just barely visible.

“No,” Tim sighs. He stares up forlornly at the underside of the patio umbrella and the sky and listens to the crickets. “Too much sleep. Want to do something…”

Dad reaches over absentmindedly to rub the top of Tim’s forearm. (And okay, maybe that does make him a bit sleepy.) The man scribbles in a solution to the crossword. Wincing, Dad scratches it back out. “That’s all right,” he says. “Just keep looking for stars.”

Dad’s been saying that for the past hour. He doesn’t explain what that means—there are plenty of stars out right now, but he promises Tim will know it when he sees it.

Suddenly, Tim gasps.

“Dad! Dad!”

Dad leans closer to get a look at the sky. “You saw one?”

“Yeah! The star fell!”

Dad hums when another streak of light sparks the sky. “Yep. That’s a meteor all right.”

“Do you think the star’s okay? What if it’s hurt?” Tim sits up straight, distraught, and looks to Dad for the answer. He can tell a few different replies are running through Dad’s head before the man settles on a “Don’t worry. It’s probably fine.”

Another beam steals both their attention, followed by another and another.

“They go so fast,” Tim whispers when Dad settles him on his lap. The crossword is abandoned, all of the attempts scratched off with the fervor of someone who used to be good at them but isn’t anymore. “Why don’t they stay longer? They’re so beautiful.”

“Sometimes the best things just can’t stay,” Dad says. His voice sounds very far away all of a sudden. It gets like that sometimes; Tim doesn’t understand it, but it scares him.

As if to remind him he’s not alone, Tim wraps his arms around Dad’s torso, squeezing faintly.

It works.

“Why don’t you make a wish?” Dad murmurs.

Tim thinks for a while. There are lots of stars, so Tim gives himself lots of wishes. Firstly, he wishes for the stars to really be okay, because they’re all falling and he hopes someone’s there to catch them. Then, he wishes for Conner to be able to see them too. And finally…

Tim glances up at Dad.

Tim’s too young to know exactly what’s going on, but he’s old enough to know it’s something. And so, he wishes that, at the very least, he can make Dad happy. Always happy. Not just when Tim tells him knock-knock jokes or says “I love you”. A permanent happiness.

Dad catches him looking, an innocent inquiry in his face.

“What did you wish for?” Tim asks.

Like the slash of a crossing star, Dad’s face melts with sentiment.

He doesn’t answer—just presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead.

* * *

Tim chews at the cap of his marker. His latest letter to Conner is sprawled out in front of him, his Crayola-thick handwriting still jilted and awkward but effective. It’s gotten better since Dad enrolled him in classes a few months ago, but it’s a Saturday today. No school.

Tim’s reaches out across the parlor floor, grasping another apple slice while debating if “huge” is spelt “hyooj” or “hyuj”. Eventually he settles for just writing “big” and goes back to doodling. There are trains and planes and computers. Tim draws two stick figures in a car, both with uneven smiles, and he holds back the paper to stare at it sideways. It doesn’t really look like him and Dad, but it’s close enough.

There’s a knock.

Tim looks behind himself, expecting to see Dad rapping his fingers against the doorjamb. Only, there’s no one there.

It’s from the front door, he realizes belatedly.

Stumbling to a stand, Tim wanders into the foyer. It’s a big room with granite floors and a dangling chandelier that sparkles like constellations. The most imposing aspect, though, is the mammoth double door.

Tim thinks he probably should get Dad, but the man should still be on a business call upstairs, one of the few he takes. It must be important, so Tim decides he’ll handle the visitor himself, stepping up to the front entrance.

Were he older, he would’ve known to use the spyhole, but at seven, he simply pulls the door open and peeks out that way.

Cricket chirps and a voice flood in. “Bruce, I swear if you—"

The man at the doorstep stops, mouth falling open as he stares down at Tim. Tim’s never seen him before, but he knows Dad’s name. Maybe they’re friends.

“…Hi,” Tim greets, the door still half-closed against the night chill.

The man continues to stare. He’s younger. Tim can tell as much. He’s got black hair that’s tied back into a long ponytail, and he’s dressed in jeans and a well-kept zip-up. It’s sharp and trendy, and he smells clean, like one of those tree air fresheners.

“Hi,” the man returns. The greeting is flimsy, a balloon with no air left inside. “What’s…what’s your name?”

“I’m Tim.”

The man’s expression morphs for the first time past shock, eyebrows pinched faintly at the edges. “Tim?”

Tim nods.

The man exhales through his mouth in a way that makes a loose hair sway. “Okay.” Tim waits for the man to introduce himself only he doesn’t. “I’m…uh…I’m looking for Bruce Wayne? Is he here?”

Tim rests the side of his face against the door, still unsure if he should let this person in. “You should come later. Dad’s on the phone.”

The man’s face drops back into surprise. “Your dad…?”

“Uh-huh.”

The man sticks a hand in his front pocket, bracing his free arm on the house siding like he’s trying to keep himself standing. He suddenly doesn’t look very well.

“Are you okay, Mister?”

“I can’t believe he’d…” The man shakes his head weakly as if to fill in the rest of the sentence with the gesture. He’s still looking at Tim, and it’s making him uneasy.

“Who are you?” Tim finally decides to ask. He’s about to close the door and talk to Dad about this strange man, but he’s stopped dead in his tracks by his next words.

“I think…” The man breathes. “I think I’m your brother.”

Now they’re two people, staring at each other like they’ve both been caught in headlights.

Tim opens the door a little more, a soft creak sounding from the hinges. He can see a bit of a resemblance now that the chandelier light has tumbled out onto this person. Black hair, sterling blue eyes. But there’s something else about him that’s different from Dad. Tanner. More lissome.

But…he says he’s Tim’s brother.

“My name’s Dick,” the man offers, bending down to be level with him. Tim gets a better look at his face from that angle and can see the start of crow’s feet around his eyes. It makes Tim feel less nervous.

Tim smiles.

Dick smiles weakly in return.

“Is it okay if I wait inside? I need to talk to our… _dad_ …as soon as possible.”

“…’kay,” Tim agrees, letting Dick step in. The man starts taking off his shoes, but Tim can’t hold in the question. “Are you really my brother?”

Dick looks over at him, undoing one last lace and peeling his sneakers off. “Yeah…I think so…”

Tim grins wildly. “I’ve always wanted a brother.”

Dick’s face goes blank at that, then dissolves into an odd expression, filled with something like love and regret and sadness. Dick ruffles his hair, messing it all up, but Tim doesn’t care. “I have too, kiddo. It’s good to meet you.”

When the hand pulls away, Tim notices Dick’s looking around, almost lost. “So…what’ve you been up to around here?”

“I’m writing my friend!”

“Your friend?” Dick says easily. He’s using a voice Tim recognizes is for little children, but for some reason, it comes off as genuine.

“Yeah!” Tim lets Dick follow him to the parlor, half dancing to keep up with his strides. “His name’s Conner. He’s my bestest friend.”

Dick makes a wowed face, taking in the room like he’s trying to count the changes. “Your _bestest_ friend, huh? He must really be something.”

“Yeah!” Tim shouts, scrabbling for the letter because he wants his big brother to see his art. “Look!” he points, sticking his tiny finger into the marker doodles.

Dick whistles. “That’s a fine-looking car you got there, bud. And what were you making over here?”

Tim’s gaze flits to the box of Legos on the other side of the room. The plastic tub’s out of place among the Victorian-esque furniture, and Dick doesn’t seem to mind. He’s already admiring the wings of an airplane, flicking a propeller and watching it spin.

“I’m making machines! Lots and lots!”

Dick hums thoughtfully. It’s the same sound Dad makes, and Tim wonders if Dick knows that.

“Well,” Dick starts, rummaging through the box and sprinkling pieces over the area rug, “with this many things, you’re gonna need a place to put ‘em. How about we build a garage while we wait?”

Tim practically teleports next to him, buzzing with energy like he’s going to shoot out of his skin. It’s been an eternity since someone’s sat down and played with him. Dad’s usually too tired, as much as Tim knows he tries. “Yeah! How big should we make it?”

Dick moves his pointer fingers apart, humming again as if it’s a hard decision. “Maybe yea big. Gotta be able to fit all your stuff.”

“Right!”

They start snapping pieces together, and Tim notices Dick’s watching him more than the blocks, a distressed look on his face. It almost feels like something’s wrong, but whenever Tim makes direct eye contact, Dick’s expression shifts back to a happy one.

“You like red?” he asks after a while.

Tim stops his work on the door. It’s a mismatch combination of poppies, cardinals, and maroons. “Yeah,” he says sheepishly.

Dick ruffles his hair again, a little slower this time, less playful and more tender. “Yeah,” he echoes. “Red’s a good one.” Tim’s too caught up in the feeling to ask what Dick’s favorite is until the man’s already moved on to the next question. “You’re in school, right?” He inclines his head toward the backpack in the corner. “How’re you liking it?”

Tim makes a face.

“You don’t?” Dick says, clearly surprised.

“I don’t like worksheets. I like to _do_ stuff.”

Dick’s lips thin into a line as he snaps two wall pieces together, seeming like he’s gained a new piece to a puzzle. He opens his mouth to ask something else, but then, there’s the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Dad!” Tim shouts excitedly. He tosses the door back into the bucket and darts out of the room so fast his socks slide on the floor. Dad catches his wrist before he falls over.

“Easy there, chum.” Dad helps right him, posture tired but relaxed. “What’s going—”

“Dad, Dad, Dad!” Tim jumps up and down, taking his hand and dragging him into the room. Dad will be so happy to see his brother!

Only…

Tim glances up to find Dad’s face has fallen.

Slowly, Dick stands up from the carpet, the room quiet aside from the _tick-tock-tick-tock_ of the grandfather clock in the corner. It seems to be getting louder.

“Tim,” Dad says quietly, inclining his head in Tim’s direction. He doesn’t look away from Dick. “It’s getting pretty late. Maybe you should go to bed.”

“But it’s only seven, and I wanna play with Dick more…”

Dick finally breaks the standoff, smiling lightly at him. “It’s okay, buddy. Dad and I need to talk some anyway. Boring stuff, you know?”

Tim doesn’t buy it, scrunching his nose faintly as he thinks it over, but Dad’s already two steps ahead of him. He gently slides his hands under Tim’s armpits, brooking no argument, and settles him on his hip. “I’ll tell you what. You can stay awake for as long as it takes me to heat up some milk. Sound fair?”

It doesn’t. But it’s better than going to bed right away.

“Okay…”

The next thing Tim knows, they’re in the kitchen, Dad pouring milk into a mug while Dick’s leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Both men are talking passed each other.

(“How’s work been?”)

(“Same old, same old. You?”)

(“About the same. Traffic still bad?”)

(“Isn’t it always?”)

By the time the microwave beeps, Tim’s anticipating that their conversation really will be boring. But then again, why would Dick come all the way here if there wasn’t something important…?

Finally, Dad sets the mug in front of him, sitting on the adjacent stool, and the small talk fades. Clearly, they’re both waiting for Tim to go to bed so they can have a real conversation. Tim juggles the mug between his hands while he thinks. He guesses he’s going to have to get to the heart of it himself.

Quietly, he says, “I didn’t know I had a brother.”

Both Dad and Dick look at each other with wide eyes, having some kind of conversation that—once again—doesn’t involve Tim.

“Why haven’t we met before?” Tim presses, almost to himself while he watches the steam unfurl out of his cup. “I think I should’ve met you before.”

Dick’s since set his jaw, nails digging against his jacket. Tim notices these things. Dr. Drake was right after all: He really is smart. Maybe too much for his own good.

After a lapse, Dad silently smooths back Tim’s hair. “Drink your milk,” is all he says.

Dick still seems upset over something, and his voice is eerily quiet when he agrees. “You should do as he says, bud. It’s getting pretty late.”

Deciding he’s not getting anywhere with this tactic, Tim guzzles it down, still eying them both over the rim of the mug like he’s afraid he’ll miss something if he looks down. “Done,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looping his arms around Dad’s chest for a quick hug. “G’night.”

“Goodnight, Tim.”

Dick shoots him a two-fingered salute as Tim walks out of the kitchen. (“Goodnight, kiddo.”) Pretty quickly, Tim starts to suspect they’re waiting for him to go all the way to his bedroom to have their conversation, so he lets himself make it to the top of the stairs before stopping. There are no lights on up here, each open room inviting some form of monster to slither out and snatch him. Telling himself he’s braver than that, Tim crouches down and focuses on the noise coming from the kitchen.

“Do you want some tea?” Tim can make out. It’s Dad’s voice.

“…”

“I’ll have some, then.” The tap turns on, ringing hollowly inside a kettle. Tim can imagine Dad setting it on the stovetop, turning the knob, and waiting.

“Who did it?” Dick finally speaks.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Who’d you commission?”

Dad rummages around inside a cabinet, then pauses. “…Drake Industries.”

“Drake Industries?” Dick hisses. “Bruce, they’re shady as sin.”

“It’s not illegal.”

“Not anymore but…the ethics of it. Are you for real?”

“I didn’t ask for you to agree.”

“Is that why Alfred left? Because he ‘didn’t agree’?”

There’s a long stretch of silence in which the kettle goes off. Dad must be occupying himself with stirring the tea, a spoon scraping ceramic.

“He doesn’t like school.”

(Tim blushes. Dick wasn’t supposed to tell Dad that.)

“…So?”

“If they’re the same, he should love it.”

“Dick, I’m not having this conversation with y—”

“He has different friends. Different experiences. He’s a different person, Bruce.”

Another cabinet door opens, then closes ten seconds later. “Of course he is.”

“Then why’d you do it? You created a life and brought it into your mess of grief. He deserves better than that.”

“I’ll do right by him. I’m not going to fail him twice.”

Dick makes a frustrated noise. “For crying out loud, he’s not Jason! He may _look_ like him. He may _sound_ like him. He may even like the same things, but he’s _not_ Jason and he can’t ever _be_ Jason!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“No, let him hear it! When were you gonna tell him?”

“…”

“Were you ever going to?”

“…”

“I don’t believe this.” Dick’s shoes are circling the kitchen, pacing. “Do you need me to spell out how this’ll go?”

“Dick—”

“Oh, he’s fine _now_. Sure. He’s what? One year old?”

“Seven.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Bruce. We both know he’s a lot younger than that. And what happens when he’s older, huh? What happens when he starts asking questions that you don’t have the answers to? He’s gonna want to know where he came from, why he’s here. One way or another, he’s gonna find out, and he’s going to _hate_ you for trying to make him something he’s n—”

Something slams against the table, and Tim jumps. “You don’t know that!!”

“Don’t I!?” Dick shouts back. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you haven’t seen this play out before between the both of us!”

“It’s not the same!”

“Oh? Just the same as you and Jason, then?”

The air goes cold. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever heard Dad so angry, doesn’t think he’s ever heard Dad angry, period. The shadows from the hall are pushing in on him, and it’s getting harder to be brave about it. All he wants is for the fighting to stop.

“I think you should go,” Dad says, curt but feigning calm.

“…Maybe I should,” Dick returns. There’s a bit of a bite to it, enough that Tim wonders if they haven’t transitioned to whispering, but then, Dick’s footsteps grow louder, coming closer. Tim starts to scurry further up into the hall out of sight, but Dick catches the motion.

Their eyes lock through the guardrail bars.

Following a tentative glance back to the kitchen, Dick follows him up the stairs, still looking a bit skittish. “Give me your arm,” the man mouths, flicking his hand toward himself in a supplementary gesture. Tim does as he’s told, too stunned to question it, and Dick takes a Sharpie out of his back pocket. Pulling off the cap with his teeth, he rolls up Tim’s sleeves to start inscribing a series of letters and numbers there. Dick gently blows at his skin to help it dry. “Remember this address for me, okay? When you’re older and want to know, come find me here. Don’t forget.”

For someone Tim hardly knows, it’s easy to believe that the information is important. Secretive.

He nods.

After arranging Tim’s sleeve back over the dried ink, Dick ruffles his hair one more time, looking like there are thousands of things he wants to say but doesn’t have the time to. Instead, he pulls Tim into one last hug, squeezing him tightly as if trying to convey all those thoughts through the touch. It’s warm and nice, but there’s a fierceness there that makes Tim nervous. He doesn’t understand. And he doesn’t have time to ask.

As soon as he lets go, Dick’s gone.

Tim’s back by himself at the top of the stairs, the Manor door squeaking closed. All around, the shadows dance, and it’s even more terrifying in the quiet. Little dark eyes. Long crooked fingers. Something’s coming for him, and without even thinking, he darts down to the ground floor and straight into the kitchen.

He was supposed to be in bed. Tim knows that, but he’s too scared to make good on that right now, instead stopping only when he’s run straight into Dad’s thighs, clinging to him.

(That should make it all better now. And yet, it still feels like those ghosts and demons have followed him.)

“Don’t fight anymore,” Tim whimpers. He knows he’s giving himself away, but he wants Dad to promise more than anything. He needs to know it’s over. No more yelling. No more mean words. No more things that catch like fish hooks and rip out flesh.

Dad exhales, shaky.

Gingerly prying Tim’s arms off from around his legs, the man kneels to get a good look at him. He seems more exhausted than usual, and his eyes are rimmed with more than just deep, sleepless marks. “No more fighting,” Dad promises. He sounds horribly broken, tired, like he wants, more than anything, to go to sleep and just never wake up.

Fear growing, Tim reaches out in an aborted motion, wanting to heal. To make it better. The falling stars were supposed to help him with this. He wished for it. Over and over. 

Dad is a sad person. Tim’s always known that.

But it’s not until that moment, when he sees the tears falling from Dad’s eyes, that empty gleam to his face that looks like it just wants the end, that Tim thinks this might be a sadness that he can’t fix.

“It's okay, Daddy… It’s okay.”


End file.
